


(All Things Go) To Recreate Us

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, reunionating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's alive, and with that knowledge, Dean can start living again, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(All Things Go) To Recreate Us

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mousapelli &amp; Angelgazing for all their help. Spoilers through 5.22: Swan Song.

[one.]

When he can think again, Dean thinks it's crazy that he's asked Lisa to take him in, to open up her life--her kid's life--to the darkness he carries around like a disease. But she opens her arms and opens her house, and okay, she opens her guest room and that's good enough, because he's not really capable of giving her anything right now but nightmares and choked back tears.

It's just the first unexpected thing that happens after Sam saves the world.

He makes an effort, because he promised Sam, and he remembers what it was like to come back and discover that Sam hadn't kept his dying promise not to use his powers. He doesn't believe Sam is coming back, mostly because he still can't believe Sam is actually gone. But he keeps his promise. He putters around Lisa's house, drinks her liquor and eats her food, but aside from doing all his laundry, he doesn't unpack. He doesn't even take Sam's duffel out of the trunk.

He makes an effort for Ben, forces a smile and talks to the kid about music and cars on autopilot, mouth moving even while his brain is still replaying the image of Sam (and Adam) falling, over and over and over.

He stops shaving, lets his beard grow and his hair get long. Lisa leaves him alone, doesn't try to make him talk, and he wishes there was some way he could let her know how much that means to him right now. He details her car, gives it a tune up, makes sure her tires are in good condition.

She thanks him for it by kissing his cheek and ruffling his hair. There was a time he'd have found that insulting. Now he can't even work up the indignation to give her a fake leer and a slap on the ass.

He sees his face in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself; he sees his father after the fire, after Sam left, nothing but drunk and broken.

He knows he's been given a second (third, hundredth, whatever) chance, but he can't actually reach out and take it, can't find anything to grab onto to pull him up out of the pit he's in, and he knows it doesn't compare to whatever Sam's going through right now.

Lisa goes to work and Ben goes to school, and Dean lies on the couch and drinks his way through a bottle of Bacardi 151, because it's all that's left in Lisa's liquor cabinet. He's contemplating pulling on some shoes and going to the liquor store, when the doorbell rings.

He's drunk enough to think answering it is a good idea, and finds Sam standing on the doorstep.

This is the second unexpected thing that happens after Sam saved the world, and Dean stands there with his mouth hanging open for a long moment, completely unable to process what he's seeing.

"No," he finally says, though he can't get his brain or mouth to move beyond that one word, that one concept. "No, no, no, no." Lucifer is gone. Sam put him back in his cage. The world is safe, and Dean doesn't have to ever save it again. Dean can't save it again; he doesn't have anything left to give to save it.

"Hi," Sam answers. "It's me. Really." He pulls Dean into a hug and Dean goes, unresisting. He smells like Sam, like sweat and soap and Old Spice deodorant. Dean buries his nose in Sam's neck and thinks he's okay if Lucifer kills him right now, because he can pretend he got Sam back before he died.

Lucifer--or maybe it really is Sam; Dean's drunk and confused and pretending he's not crying--doesn't kill him. He pulls back far enough to give Dean a soft smile and Dean can't help but smile back.

"Hey," Sam says, and he's crying too, which makes Dean believe it really is Sam, because he can't imagine Lucifer would go with crying instead of smiting if they ever met again. Dean is totally going to mock Sam for it once he can speak again. "Hey, Dean. Can I come in?"

Dean swallows hard and nods, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He steps aside and lets Sam--what he chooses to believe is Sam--into Lisa's house.

The lamp in the hallway flickers as they walk by, and the overhead light in the kitchen frizzles and pops when Dean leads Sam in there. As much as Dean would like to ignore it, he knows the house is too new to have old wiring, and Sam--if it really is Sam--isn't the brother he watched fall into hell three weeks ago.

Dean jerks his chin at the kitchen table and while Sam takes a seat, he goes to the fridge and pulls out the bottle of holy water he keeps on the door. Unscrewing the cap, he spins and tosses it at Sam, who fish-mouths at him in surprise, but shows no sign of possession.

"I would have preferred it in a drink," Sam says, plucking his wet t-shirt away from his chest. He glances up at the blown out light. "I'm not--I don't think I'm entirely human anymore, Dean, but I'm not Lucifer, and I'm not--I don't want to be evil."

"Okay," Dean says, pulling open the cutlery drawer and fumbling around for the silver cake knife he knows Lisa keeps in there. He places it on the table in front of Sam. Sam looks from the knife to him and back to the knife again. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam sighs. He picks up the knife and nicks himself with it, and holds his bleeding arm out for Dean's inspection. "Okay," Dean repeats, still not sure he's not only seeing what he wants to see.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice as gentle as the hand he lays on Dean's arm, "even if I were still Lucifer, none of these things would work. He was still an angel." Then he takes a napkin from the napkin-holder and presses it against the bleeding cut on his arm.

Dean nods, remembering how Lucifer played him when Sam first said yes, but he can't think of anything else to do. "If you're gonna kill me," he says, "can we do it somewhere else so Lisa and Ben don't have to see it?"

"I'm not going to kill you," Sam says. "It's really me." He gives Dean a long look and then says, "You're totally drunk right now, aren't you?"

"No." Dean can still taste the rum in his mouth. "Yes."

"Okay." Sam goes to the sink and grabs a glass from the drying rack. He fills it with water and puts it on the table in front of Dean. "Do you know where Lisa keeps the Tylenol?"

"Medicine cabinet upstairs," Dean says, heaving himself to his feet. He sways a little bit but he's used to that now. "I'll show you." He thumps up the stairs, enjoying the familiar feel and sound of Sam's gigantic feet clomping up the stairs behind him. "Got a headache?"

"Something like that." Sam sounds amused, and it makes Dean's heart hurt in a way that climbing a set of stairs shouldn't do until he's seventy. Not that he's going to live that long.

Dean fumbles with the medicine chest, gestures with a flourish at the bottom shelf with its bottles of Tylenol and Advil and Nyquil. He grabs the box of band-aids and tosses it at Sam; his hands are shaking too much to help. Sam sticks a band-aid over the cut on his arm and smiles.

"The Advil," Sam says, and Dean takes it down and hands it to him, knowing better than to mess with the childproof cap. "Hold out your hand." Dean does and Sam taps three orange pills into his palm. "Come on, Dean, work with me here." Dean takes the pills and the glass of water Sam holds out to him and swallows. "Let's get you to bed."

Dean lets Sam lead him into the guest room and goes easily when Sam pushes him down onto the unmade bed. "Don't go," he says, clutching at Sam when Sam straightens up.

"I'm just gonna take my boots off," Sam says, shrugging out of his hoodie and hanging it on the doorknob. "Okay?"

"Okay." Dean rearranges the covers and waits for Sam to climb into the bed beside him. Either he's dreaming or Lucifer's going to kill him in his sleep or it's really Sam. "You gonna be here when I wake up?" he mumbles as Sam's weight makes the mattress dip.

"Yes," Sam says, pulling the blankets up over both of them.

Dean sleeps.

*

Dean wakes up from the saddest, best dream he's had in ages, and freezes when he feels the heat and solidity of another body in bed with him. He opens his eyes and sees Sam lying next to him, watching him intently. It'd be creepy if it were anyone else. To be honest, even though it's Sam, it's still a little creepy.

"Hey."

"Hey," Dean replies, his voice thick and rusty with sleep. He clears his throat. His head hurts and his mouth tastes like something died in it. "You're really here."

Sam smiles, wide and sunny. "I really am."

"I've still got all your stuff in the car. I, uh, didn't do the laundry so it's probably a little ripe."

Sam laughs. "Of course it is. Come on," he says, and then, "you should go first, so we don't freak out Lisa and Ben."

Lisa makes coffee and opens a box of Entenmann's coffee cake and while she's smiling, she also looks nervous. Given the way the new bulb in the kitchen light fixture flickers over their heads when Sam laughs, Dean's not sure he blames her.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, sheepish look on his face so familiar that Dean has to choke back something that threatens to be a sob. He turns it into a coughing fit, and Lisa shoos them out onto the back deck. She keeps Ben inside with her, and Dean can hear him complaining that school is almost over and teachers who keep giving homework now are probably demonic.

Dean looks over at Sam, amused, and Sam grins back. For the first time in months, maybe years, Dean feels like he can breathe easy. The kitchen goes quiet and Dean sips his coffee and basks in Sam's presence.

Sam, of course, ruins the moment. He gets that earnest look on his face that always precedes some announcement that's going to make Dean's life more complicated than it already is. Dean looks down into his half-empty coffee cup.

"I can't stay."

"Sam--"

Sam pushes his hair off his forehead. He needs a haircut, which is typical, because Sam always needs a haircut. Dean braces himself for whatever it is that's going to come out of Sam's mouth. He knows he's not going to like it. He wishes he could say he wasn't expecting it, but even after everything, he still knows Sam better than anyone, and this is classic Sam.

"I've got too much shit inside my head right now, Dean."

"Hell--"

"Hell, Lucifer, whatever it is I am now." He closes his eyes and grimaces, and the porch lights blow out. "I need to get right in my own head before I do anything else."

"Forty days in the desert?" Dean jokes weakly.

"Something like that."

"And you don't want me to come with." It's not a question.

"You promised--"

"You were dead, Sam. In hell. I--I couldn't--"

"And now I'm not." Sam reaches out, puts a hand on Dean's knee and squeezes, the way Dean always used to do to him to calm him down when he fought with Dad, to reassure him after something new came along to send his world spinning the wrong way up. "Now you have a chance to actually make it work here, Dean. Make something real, without," he waves a hand, meant to encompass the many, many things that have turned their lives to shit over the years, "interference."

Dean wants to say no, say hell no and bundle Sam into the car before he can disappear again. Instead, he says, "You should at least stay for dinner. Lisa makes a hell of a meatloaf."

Sam laughs. "Yeah. Okay. Though we'll probably end up eating by candlelight."

Dean laughs, because if he doesn't, he'll cry.

Sam stays long enough to have dinner, do his laundry, and get his ass soundly whipped at Mario Kart by Ben. Dean wants to ask him to stay again, but he knows the more he asks, the more determined Sam will be to leave. Even after everything, somehow that's still the same.

Once Sam's ginormous darks are done drying, he packs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says to Lisa, and wraps her up in one of those overwhelming hugs that Dean pretends he hates. "For everything."

Lisa looks startled and the way she pats Sam's back is a little hesitant, but her smile is genuine, as far as Dean can tell. "No problem. We're glad you're okay." She gives Dean a concerned look--she's still surprised he's letting Sam go alone, but no more surprised than Dean is himself--and Dean forces a smile that probably looks as fake as it feels. "Take care of yourself, Sam. And we'll always be here if you need us."

"Thanks," Sam says again, looking uncomfortable. He bumps fists with Ben, and then lets Dean lead him out of the house.

"The car," Dean says, pushing the words past the lump in his throat. "If you want to take her..." He remembers the last time he offered and part of him wants Sam to say yes, wants to know that the car is there to take care of him even if Dean can't be, but he also wants Sam to say no, because having the car is one of the few things that's kept Dean sane--or whatever passes for it in his life--all these years.

"No," Sam says, his mouth curving in a half-grin. "I couldn't--It never feels right without you in it, man. You know that." Which is as close as Sam ever gets anymore to talking about the time when Dean was dead.

Dean nods. "Okay, I guess. I don't--Shit, Sam, I'm just glad you're alive. Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Okay. You, too." Sam hugs him, and Dean lets him, lets himself melt into the heat and solidity of Sam's body for a few seconds. He breathes in the scent of detergent and Sam, and if it takes him a little longer than he'd like to let go, he doesn't think Sam's going to call him on it.

"Come back when you're done," he says when they pull apart.

"I will," Sam says, and Dean takes it as a promise.

Sam gets into an old blue pickup truck and drives off. Dean watches until his taillights disappear into the darkness. Then he goes inside and gets a beer. Sam's alive, and with that knowledge, Dean can start living again, too.

***

[two.]

About eight days after Sam leaves, an envelope comes for Dean, full of papers detailing his new life as Dean Harrison, graduate of the University of Kansas and accredited mechanic. He has everything he'll ever need to be a citizen now, as long as he keeps out of trouble with the law.

It's postmarked Bisbee, Arizona, and he doesn't know if that's where Sam is, or if Bobby sent it. He calls Sam's number but it goes right to voicemail. He doesn't know what to say--Sam's already saved him so many times--so he just breathes into the phone for a few seconds, then says, "I hope you're staying hydrated, bitch."

Two days later, he comes out of the shower to find a voicemail from Sam that says, "I hope you shaved off that butt-ugly beard and got a haircut, jerk," and he breathes a little easier than he has since Sam left.

Out of sheer cussed stubbornness, he keeps the beard for another three weeks before he can't take it anymore. He's started working at the garage in town, and it itches when he sweats. He doesn't know how Sam manages that mop of hair on his head, or how Dad dealt with his beard. Lisa laughs at him and shoos him out the door to the local barbershop to have it all shaved off.

"You're the new mechanic at Joe's, right?" the old barber, Leroy, asks him.

"Yeah," Dean says, "though I ain't met Joe yet."

Leroy laughs. "And you ain't gonna. Joe Taylor died damn near thirty years ago. Left that garage to his son, Chester. Chester sold it to Stanley Tompkins back in 1985, and Hector bought it from him when he retired in 2002. They're all just too cheap to put up a new sign."

Dean laughs, the sound still a little foreign to his ears, but no less than the act of making small talk when he's not trying to pick up a chick or soften up a witness. "My dad was a mechanic. Owned his own shop when I was little." It still aches low and slow in his chest, but it doesn't hurt the way it used to, to think of Dad and Mom.

"Oh yeah? Where?"

"Kansas."

After that, everyone at the barbershop calls him Kansas, and the guys at the garage start using it, too.

"I'm just glad I didn't say Lawrence," he tells Sam's voicemail. "I don't look like a Lawrence, man." He laughs softly. It's easier sometimes to talk to Sam's voicemail than it is to talk to Sam. "I don't remember ever having a nickname, before," he says, because only Dad ever called him "Dean-o" and it had been years since he'd done it even before he died. It feels kinds nice, like he's actually part of something here, like they'd remember him if he left, maybe even be sad about it. He doesn't tell Sam that part.

The next morning, he has a message from Sam. "Dude, I've been calling you asshole for years. Doesn't that count?" He laughs along with Sam's dorky laugh. "So, do they start singing 'Point of Know Return' when you walk in?"

They don't, but Dean thinks they totally should. "Fuck you," he tells Sam's voicemail. "I should totally have my own entrance theme. Like Batman."

"Yeah," Sam texts back a few minutes later, "you're Batman."

"I'm glad you agree," Dean replies, ignoring Sam's sarcasm, and then turns his phone off so he can pretend he got the last word.

*

The thing is, Ben does look at him sometimes like he's Batman, like Sam used to when they were kids, like he can do anything. Maybe he deserved it from Sam, but he doesn't from Ben, never expected it at all, and it makes him want to do more with the kid, make up for the waste of space he was when he showed up at their house after the world didn't end.

"So I started teaching Ben about engines," he tells Sam's voicemail. He's pretty sure Sam doesn't pick up on purpose, but as long as he always calls back, Dean's not going to fuss at him about it. "Kid's a natural. I wanted to teach him how to shoot, but Lisa wasn't comfortable with that. She says I have to wait until he's thirteen." He doesn't say he thinks about being there until Ben is thirteen, about what that might feel like. He misses Sam, but he doesn't miss hunting the way he once thought he would. "We had a barbecue for his eleventh birthday. Did you know they actually eat pasta salads and shit at those things? I thought it was all meat, all the time, but apparently not." He stretches out on the back deck, takes a sip of beer. "It's a good thing, too, because I kind of charred all the burgers. Who knew you had to, like, keep the flame low?"

Sam's laughter is loud and long when he calls Dean back, and Dean wishes he'd been able to hear it live, instead of on a recording, but he'd been flirting with a customer over the roof of her Mustang and hadn't heard his phone ring.

"Yeah, so, another thing I've learned, Sammy, is that I shouldn't flirt with Ben's social studies teacher when I'm living with the kid's mom. Even though Lisa and I aren't--" He stops, ducks his head, because he's not sure he wants to say it out loud, even to Sam, even when Sam can't actually hear him while he's saying it. "I think I maybe want to, though. Try out the relationship thing, I mean. I don't know. I don't know how she feels about it." He runs a hand through his hair. "Is this what normal feels like? Because it kinda sucks."

"She's let you live in her guestroom for the past three months, Dean. I think she might go for it. Never know until you try, though," Sam answers a couple of days later.

He figures Sam knows more about this shit than he does--he's the one who actually had a successful relationship once--so one night after dinner, while Ben's over at his best friend's house, he puts the moves on Lisa. She laughs into his mouth when he presses her back against the counter, and this part, at least, he's always been good at.

It's harder than he expects, though, being in one place, being with one woman. Not because he wants anybody else--Lisa is amazing, and he appreciates that--but because it's not all bendy, sweaty sex and barbecues. He's so used to walking away that it never occurred to him how much work it is to stay in once place, to learn to live with someone who isn't Dad or Sam, someone who expects him to clean his hair out of the drain and put the toilet seat down and help her make the bed on Sunday mornings. Who wants him to go with her to her parents' thirty-fifth anniversary dinner and the Pattersons' Halloween party.

They have their first real fight over the Halloween party. Dean hates fighting with her, fighting the urge to placate her while at the same time rebelling against the idea that he owes her any kind of explanation. It's the first time he considers leaving, but without Sam beside him, there's nothing out there that's better than what he's got here.

"I just--I hate that fucking holiday, and everything it stands for," he tells Sam. Their voicemails have gotten shorter and farther apart as the days have gotten cooler, and Dean'd be lying if he said he didn't worry about Sam a lot, but it wasn't with the same panic he'd had as a kid, or the despair and helplessness he'd felt when he'd first come back from hell or as the apocalypse bore down on them. "And I couldn't make her understand that. She let it go, but not until we had a long talk about our _feelings_." He imagines Sam laughing at him, because Sam always insisted that he should talk about his feelings, but getting Sam to do it was like pulling teeth.

"Dude," Sam replies, suppressed laughter in his voice clear even over the poor connection and the tinny recording, "I'm sure she still thinks you're very manly."

"Damn straight," Dean texts back. "The make-up sex is phenomenal."

"TMI!" Sam answers, and Dean can almost pretend he's at the library or picking up some food instead of God knows where, doing God knows what. He asked once, and got a ridiculously literal answer that meant Sam didn't want to share. Rather than push him into lying again, Dean let it go. Sam was alive, he was out there, and he'd said he'd come back when he was done. That's more than he'd ever gotten the other times Sam had left.

*

"I wanted to deep fry the turkey," Dean says, his voice soft and a little slurred from the huge amount of turkey and pie he'd eaten at dinner, "but Lisa said it was unhealthy, and also dangerous. I said unhealthy and dangerous was my middle name, but she said she was the one cooking, and I could just suck it up." He unbuttons his jeans and sighs with relief. "We set a place for you, but I guess you couldn't make it." He tries not to sound disappointed, but doesn't think he manages it. "I hope you had a good day."

When his phone rings late that night, Dean grabs it off the night table before it can wake Lisa. "Sammy?"

There's nothing but breathing for a few seconds, and then, "I'm sorry. I lost track of the days."

"No problem," Dean says. His voice is soft and rough, and he pretends it's because Lisa's asleep next to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I've been staying with this friend of Missouri's. She's into all this New Age stuff--crystals and meditation and shit. She doesn't really celebrate the holidays."

"You always did like those hippie chicks," Dean says, laughing. "You banging her?"

"She's a lesbian."

"Of course she is. She let you watch?"

"Dean!"

Dean can picture the disgruntled expression on Sam's face like he'd seen it yesterday. "I know you dig the hot girl-on-girl action, Sammy. It's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Sam, man, if I didn't say it, you'd be asking me if something was wrong."

Sam lets out a long breath. "Yeah, I guess. So what's up?"

Dean heads downstairs as he fills in Sam about his work at the garage. "And I'm an assistant coach for Ben's football team. The middle school doesn't have a team but there's a Pop Warner league in town."

"What position does he play?"

"He's a defensive back. He doesn't start every game, but he's pretty good. He gets to play pretty often." Dean doesn't try to hide the pride in his voice.

"That's awesome, Dean. I always knew you'd be a good dad."

Dean has to swallow hard before he can speak again. "Thanks, Sammy. You should come see him play sometime."

"Maybe I will."

"Cool." Dean lets the silence stretch out for a little bit, just listening to the sound of Sam's breathing. He wants to keep Sam on the line forever. He wants to tell him to come home now. He doesn't know if he actually thinks of Lisa's as home (he still thinks of it as Lisa's house, and he lives in it; he doesn't know if he'll ever feel like it's his, and he's not sure it matters), but he's here and the Impala is here, so Sam should be here, too. He doesn't, though, because he's finally learned, after all these years, that the fastest way to make Sam run is to hold onto him too tightly.

"I've gotta go," Sam finally says. "Bonnie's locking up."

"Take care of yourself, Sam."

"You, too, Dean."

It takes Dean a while to fall asleep after he ends the call. He dreams of being on the road again, him and Sam, nothing but the horizon in his headlights. He wakes up at dawn, expecting to see Sam sleeping across from him. He can't shake the ache of sadness when Sam's not there.

***

[three.]

The rest of the year passes in a blur of work and football and holiday parties that still make Dean feel awkward and unsure in that way almost nothing else does. He likes most of Lisa's friends, but he's always aware they're _her_ friends, and he tries hard not to embarrass her. It's easier with the husbands--he can talk cars and football with the best, and he actually likes one or two of them enough to relax, but he's not at his best in social situations where he's not bullshitting someone or putting the moves on, so he spends a lot of time nodding and smiling and trying to figure out how other people do it. If he pretends he's working a case, it's easier.

"But it always feels so fake," he tells Sam's voicemail a few days before Christmas. They haven't spoken since Thanksgiving, and Dean's afraid it's going to be another six months before they do again. "Lisa says it's like that a lot of the time, even for her, but I don't know, man. That seems like a shitty way to live."

Sam doesn't call back, and Dean stupidly hopes he'll show up on Christmas Eve like some kind of freakishly tall Santa Claus, but he doesn't.

"Do you want to go look for him?" Lisa asks after they've put all Ben's presents under the tree and gone to bed.

Dean does. He really, really does. But he says, "No." Lisa raises an eyebrow. She's pretty good at seeing through his bullshit, which is uncomfortable sometimes, but right now he appreciates it. "Okay, I do, but I'm not going to. Maybe after New Year's. I've got some days saved up and it's been pretty quiet at the garage. Hector would let me go." He traces the curve of her cheek and the slope of her nose with his finger. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah," she says, leaning in to kiss him softly. "I think you should bring him home."

*

Ben likes the new bike and the Xbox they get him, and Lisa likes the earrings and necklace Dean bought her after weeks of freaking out that maybe she was expecting a ring he wasn't prepared to give. She and Ben give him a workbench he sets up in the garage after Ben helps him clean out some space. He doesn't know yet what he's going to build, if anything, but he takes his toolbox out of the Impala's trunk and sets up his tools. It feels weird to have them all arranged and within easy reach, but he kinda likes it.

They stay home on New Year's Eve, watch the travesty that is Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve with that Seacrest douchebag, and send a sleepy Ben to bed right after the ball drops.

Dean's back out in the garage in the morning, wondering if he can afford to buy a circular saw during the after Christmas sales, when he hears a car pull into the driveway. He pushes up the garage door and sucks in a surprised breath of chilly air when he sees Sam unfolding himself from the driver's seat of that old pickup truck.

"Hey," Sam says. He pushes a hand through his hair and stands there awkwardly. "What's up?"

"Hey," Dean says, and this time, he takes the three steps to cross the distance between them, and pulls Sam into a fierce hug. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and his face lights with a wide smile, the kind Dean hasn't seen on him in longer than he can remember. "Yeah," he says. "I really am."

"Good. Good. Come on in. There's coffee, and Lisa should be up soon, so I better start breakfast."

Sam follows him into the house, and Dean gives him a thorough once-over. Sam looks good--the dark shadows under his eyes and the tight lines around his mouth are gone, and his clothes fit properly, instead of hanging wrong the way they did during that last year, when both of them were drinking too much and eating too little. "You need a haircut," is what he says, though.

"Fuck you," Sam answers, pushing his long bangs off his forehead. "You look good."

"I always do."

"I mean it."

"You, too, Sammy." Dean gets the bacon out and starts mixing up pancake batter. "Where've you been?"

Sam shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. "Everywhere. California, most recently. Heading up to Colorado next."

Dean tenses and bites back the I hoped you'd stay that wants to come out. He grunts instead.

"I've been hunting," Sam says when he realizes Dean isn't going to say anything. "Bobby sent me this job. I think it's a Wendigo." Dean hasn't heard from Bobby since he drove off the junkyard three days after Sam fell into the pit. "I could really use your help, man. You should come with."

"You don't need me," Dean says roughly, and realizing the truth of that never hurts any less, no matter how many times he does it. "You can do it by yourself."

"Maybe," Sam says, shrug obvious in his voice, and Dean turns to see if he means it. "But I don't want to."

"I don't know," Dean says, unwilling to believe what Sam is telling him, "I've got a job." As if he hadn't been planning to take two weeks off to go looking for Sam. "And I'd have to discuss it with Lisa."

"Discuss what with Lisa?" she asks, pulling her bathrobe tight around her waist and coming into the kitchen. She gives Dean a kiss and takes the mug of coffee he hands her. "Hi, Sam. Happy New Year."

"Oh, yeah," Sam says. "Happy New Year." He stands and gives Lisa a hug and then they both sit down at the table. "I've got this hunt up in Colorado and I could really use Dean's help."

Lisa nods and takes a sip of her coffee. "I think you should go," she says when Dean doesn't say anything. "You were already planning a trip."

"I don't know," Dean says again, which is weird, because he really wants to go, but he doesn't want to _leave_, and he doesn't know how to deal with that. "I mean, I just got the garage all set up with my tools, and I need to kick Ben's ass at Call of Duty."

Sam looks away, nodding. "Okay." He sounds weirdly angry, considering he's not even arguing. Which just proves he doesn't really care if Dean goes with him.

Lisa shakes her head. "Dean, it's okay. Just because you leave doesn't mean you can't come back."

"What?"

"You go with Sam, and then you come back." She puts her mug down on the table. "I never expected you to stay this long, to be honest. You can go for two weeks and then come back to work, or you can quit and go for as long as you need to, and come back when you're ready."

Dean leans back, like he's just avoided an unexpected punch. "Are you breaking up with me?"

She laughs. "No. I just--I know that this isn't what you want, Dean. We're here for you, and we always will be, but--"

"I've been happy here," he says, cutting her off. "Don't you ever think I haven't. Not once I knew Sam was okay."

"I know that. But you want to go, right?"

"I--Yeah." It's been too long since he's been behind the wheel, Sam at his side, something that needs killing in their sights. He hadn't thought he'd missed it, but now that it's staring him in the face, he wants it with everything in him. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay, then." She turns to Sam, who's staring at her, slack-jawed. He probably didn't believe Dean when Dean told him how awesome Lisa was. It's something people have to see for themselves. "Do you need to leave today, or can we eat pie and watch some football first?"

"We can go in the morning," Sam says, smiling like she just gave him the best present ever. "That's fine."

"Good," she says, "because you don't want to miss my pecan pie."

*

Dean takes Ben aside while Lisa and Sam are washing up after breakfast, and tells him that they'll be leaving in the morning. "But I'm gonna come back, Ben. I promise you. I don't know exactly when," he's decided to play it by ear and see how the two weeks go before he makes any permanent decisions, "but I'm not gonna just disappear, okay?"

"Okay," Ben says. "When you come back, will you teach me how to hunt?"

Dean ruffles his hair and laughs at the annoyed look on his face. "That's up to your mom." He's pretty sure the answer's going to be no, but there's no reason to disappoint the kid yet.

*

It doesn't take long to pack up his stuff, but he sighs as he looks at his tools so neatly arranged in the garage, and decides to buy a whole new set for the car once they're on the road.

In the morning, Lisa packs them a cooler full of sandwiches and a huge thermos of coffee. Sam waits in the car while Dean says his goodbyes, and Dean appreciates his discretion. He gives Ben a tight hug and reiterates his promise. Then he pulls Lisa close and buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin before he kisses her goodbye.

"I'm coming back," he says. "I promise."

She cups his cheek and smiles. "I know," she says. "Be careful."

"I will."

He hums as he walks out to the car and gets into the driver's seat.

"Are you humming your own theme music?" Sam asks incredulously.

Dean stops and thinks for a second before he realizes he's humming "Point of Know Return." He kind of wishes he'd been humming something cooler, but he figures it's appropriate. At least it's not KC and the Sunshine Band or something.

"Yeah," he says, grinning.

"Dude."

"What?"

"_Dude_." Sam shakes his head in disbelief.

Dean starts the car and lets the sound rumble through him. "Oh, come on, Sammy, you'd do it too if your personal theme song weren't 'Oops, I Did It Again.'"

"Shut up and drive," Sam says, laughing.

"My pleasure," Dean says, and pulls the car out onto the street. "So tell me about this hunt."

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens.


End file.
